


Vacant

by strawberrykait



Category: Léon | The Professional (1994)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-07
Updated: 2007-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrykait/pseuds/strawberrykait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after Leon's death, Mathilda is still seeking revenge and still living with his ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vacant

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Original copyright Luc Besson. Any derivative works (whether fiction/art/etc) based on the plot, original characters, etc. of this story is considered infringement of my intellectual property rights without my explicit permission.

The apartment door opened and closed swiftly, allowing just enough room for the person but not prying eyes. It was dim, the only light coming through the curtained windows. Carefully she set her case upon the small table against the wall, removing her coat and tossing it over the chair.

In the kitchen she found a glass, filled it brimming with milk, finished it in one go. Never pour more than you'll drink, never drink less than you pour. For a moment she did nothing but stare blankly at the window, watching the curtain move with each breath of wind, but not seeing it. Instead she focused on the man sitting behind her in the corner, as silent at the apartment itself. She would not look at him; there was no need.

Mathilda approached the open window, pushed aside the thin curtain, and retrieved a small houseplant from the sill. Sunlight was good for it, helped it grow, along with the water and the cleaning she gave it every few days. Better than a pet or a person, a plant asked for nothing in return, nothing she couldn't easily give without losing a part of herself. Almost nothing.

She brought the plant into the other room to join her bag and the quiet man. He was sleeping, so she stayed quiet. Slowly she unbuckled her holster, draped it across one side of the chair. Mathilda sat down at the table, removing her slate grey cap. Out of habit, she ran her hand through what little hair she had. Shorn for anonymity, she often wore a cap or wigs to change her appearance when she worked. Helped her forget who she was, who she used to be. Who she'll never be.

The man in the corner doesn't move, even after she opens the case revealing half a dozen guns. He never moves. Always the same corner, but not every time. She's seen him on the street, down an alley where she could barely make out his form. Sometimes he's standing in a hallway of a building she enters only once, never to return. Wherever she goes, he's been there before, but never says a word.

Mathilda stood too quickly, knocking the chair over, and strode to the small bathroom, flinging her clothes off as she went. In the shower she scrubbed, scrubbed so hard her skin was raw. Must stay clean; draw less attention to yourself when you're indistinguishable from the surroundings. But never really clean enough to forget. Various scars created a pattern across her body – on her shoulders and back, even one grazed her temple. All were reminders of how she lived, what she lost along the way.

The water quickly turned cold while she leaned her forehead against the gritty wall. It wasn't good to remember the past. Better to forget. But she couldn't; he wouldn't let her forget, and she didn't want to. Leon once said that revenge was not good; that it was better to forget. Back then she'd argued the point, but never really won. Neither did he, for she never forgot what happened to them.

Damn him. He lied to her. He left her.

He left her no one to extract her revenge.

The explosion of their apartment building was all over the news. Over two hundred cops had been there, hunting down a cop killer. One was posthumously decorated for his courage and sacrifice in order to bring down the bad guy. Both were at the center of the explosion, which was enough to bring the building down in a matter of hours. Tony told her all of this. Explained to her that was why she couldn't stay with him, why she had to go back to school and forget the last couple months. Forget all about Leon.

Tony was true to his word, giving Mathilda money as she needed it once a month, but he never accepted her for work. So she found work elsewhere.

The first time she was numb, a little sloppy. Next time she was numb again, and stayed that way. They were jobs, and she did hers well. The best. Wasn't long before Tony caught wind. By that time he could no longer persuade her to stop, not even for Leon's sake. She'd lost her tenacity, her vitality. All the charm had been suffocated by the harshness of her life. But she would argue that the only other option was death, and this was her choice.

Tony gave her a job.

More followed, until eventually he entrusted the young girl with his most important tasks. By 22 she was a wonderful cleaner, the best. But not by her standards.

Mathilda stepped out of the shower, dried off and dressed, and returned to the darkened room. The corner was empty, no evidence left behind. From the table she retrieved a .9-millimeter, locked, loaded, and then moved towards the vacant corner chair. She exchanged the gun for a pair of sunglasses off the small end table, and then sat in the dark. Mathilda passed the night in his vacated chair, just like he used to, just waiting.


End file.
